Sherlock's Gift
by Imogen74
Summary: Post TFP. Sherlock attempts to celebrate Christmas. In June. Sherlolly.


The thing about Sherlock Holmes, he doesn't have friends.

Molly Hooper knew this without a doubt. She knew that he didn't want friends, even though John Watson was his very best friend. She knew he didn't love people, even though Mrs Hudson was basically his second mother and she knew he would do anything for her. She knew he didn't have sex, except with Irene Adler (yes this hurt a touch but whatever. He didn't love her.) He hated his brother. Except when he didn't.

And so it was. Sherlock Holmes isolated himself from emotions.

Except that he really didn't.

And Molly really did not know where she was in all of this. She assumed she was his friend.

Though undoubtedly he would deny that.

So, when he had made that call to her, she thought little of it in the aftermath. It had hurt her, because she had laid herself bare. But she knew that he knew how she felt.

Maybe that was part of the pain.

She had, thankfully, been off the following day. She had time to process what had happened. And she could start to let go. Molly spent a lot of time letting go of things where Sherlock was concerned.

And still, she loved him.

What a cock up.

* * *

She was in the morgue a few days later…it had been a busy day. Her neck hurt. She felt old. The intern was fifteen years younger than her, and that blew her mind. She was in a bad mood…and what she wanted more than anything was to go home and have a glass of wine.

"Molly?"

She looked up and saw John there. "Hey John," she smiled.

"Can I …can we talk a mo?"

"Um…" she looked down at the cadaver. "Rather busy at the moment. Can it wait?"

"Actually, not really…sorry. I won't be long with this."

She sighed and put the scalpel down. "Go on then."

He appeared to be agitated. Or worried. Something. "I know that you must be reeling from what happened."

She furrowed her brow.

"Yeah. And I'm here to make sure you're ok. And to let you know that he isn't."

"What?"

"Are you ok, Molly?"

"Am I ok…? Well, yeah. Fine. Just tired."

John nodded. "Good. That's good," he smiled slightly. "He's not."

"Who do you mean?"

"Who do I …?" he was aghast. "Sherlock. Sherlock is not ok. That was just awful…everything that happened."

"What happened?"

"Seriously?"

Molly shrugged. "Well, yeah."

"God, Molly. You really don't know…"

"Stop it John. Just tell me."

He sighed very loudly and rubbed his face. "I guess this makes sense. Why you're not upset, though…" he shook his head, looked at the floor, and then back up at Molly. "You remember the last time you spoke with Sherlock?"

She swallowed. "Of course I do."

"And he made you say…" he struggled a minute. "What you said."

"Hang on. You were _there_?"

"Well…" he replied sheepishly.

"Oh my god."

"Listen, Molly. I'm trying to explain…"

"Try harder."

He nodded. "Ok," and he took a deep breath. "Ok. Sherlock has a sister…" and on he went for a full five minutes, explaining what happened at Sherrinford, and why that phone call had taken place.

Molly's mouth hung agape.

"What are you thinking?"

"I …I dunno. I guess I think that this is all mad."

"Well, it is."

"Yeah," she said, looking down. "You said that he's not ok?"

"Not at all."

And there was something like anger that built up in her. " _He's_ not ok. That's bloody brilliant."

"Molly…"

"No. I mean, all right. He's been through a lot. But so have _I ._ So have I, John. And I'm rather tired of him always…just…always getting his way. It's not fair."

He hung his head. "I shouldn't have told you. Shouldn't have come here."

"Probably not," she crossed her arms.

"Sorry. I really am," and he turned, leaving.

"Yeah well. So am I." She watched him leave and felt nothing. She was so irritated with Sherlock Holmes.

In fact, she thought that he probably sent John to gauge if she was angry.

Prat.

Molly Hooper went back to work feeling slightly sick.

* * *

He heard the taxi door close and knew it was him by the way the door slightly paused before closing altogether. He was slumped in his chair…he hadn't slumped in his chair like this in some time.

But he was wracked with guilt and self loathing. Two things that, he supposed, were well deserved, and not at all new to him.

She had thrown him out. That was the cause of his delay in coming up to the flat. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Of course she had thrown him out. She would have done worse to him had _he_ shown up.

But he was a coward. He saw that now.

He heard John's breathing as he ascended the stairs. It must have been decidedly not good.

"Jesus. Like a tomb in here," John turned on the kitchen light. "Have you eaten?"

Sherlock was watching him from the chair. "Nope."

"Well, I'm starving. And I should really be getting on…Rosie needs picking up."

He placed his forefinger on the edge on the armrest. "She chucked you out, did she?"

"Hm?" John was in the fridge, getting things out for a sandwich. He turned to look at him. "What? No. She didn't chuck me out," and he put the sandwich things on the table, assembling a sandwich in a messy, hurried manner.

Sherlock's gaze fell. "I've been sitting here, thinking what needs doing. It isn't easy, you know."

"Trust you for that," and he took a bite.

"What did she say?"

He shrugged. "Well, she didn't know about all of this business. She was right cross, Sherlock. And I think…" he paused. "I think that she didn't consider it much until I showed up."

"What?" he sat up at that. "She didn't consider it much? What does that mean?"

"It means that she took all of this as you behaving the way you do ordinarily, and then I explained things to her and now she's pissed."

"Brilliant. That's just brilliant, John," he stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well done."

"I did what you asked me to do," he pointed at Sherlock.

"I asked you to see if she was cross. Not to _make_ her cross," he gesticulated madly.

"Next time, _you_ go," he slammed his half eaten sandwich into the bin. "Stop moping around here and muttering to yourself."

"I'm not _moping,_ " he spat.

"No. Pining, more like."

"What's that supposed to mean?" and his voice sounded suddenly deadly.

"It means, you great git, that you miss her and you're terrified that she's pissed."

Sherlock hadn't realized that he was slouching. He stood erect and swallowed. "Molly is my friend."

"Yup."

"And, as my friend, I am concerned that I hurt her inadvertently."

"'Course you are."

His eyes narrowed. "Look, John. I know what you're thinking…"

"Doubtful."

He sighed. "I have been unable to think about what to do…Molly…I know that I hurt her."

"How about you say that you're sorry?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Typical."

"Well, aren't you?" he paused. "Sorry, I mean."

"I haven't thought about it in those terms."

"What terms _have_ you thought about it in, then?"

He swallowed. "I just don't want her to be cross."

"Sherlock, look," he sounded a mix of incredulity and pity. "You've been a dick to Molly off and on for as long as I've known you. How about you try to not…be a cock? Just, you know. Try to be at least somewhat nice to her. You've gone through a lot."

His brow furrowed. "When did you first notice my…maltreatment?"

"When did I …?" he chuckled.

Sherlock put his hands on his hips.

"Right. Sorry…" he cleared his throat. "I dunno. Probably the time Moriarty was Jim, and you told her to break it off."

Sherlock began to pace. "What if I …" he steepled his fingers to his nose and stood in front of his newly repaired wall.

…and an idea began to form. Molly was cross, the last of the people whom he had hurt during the Sherrinford debacle. The last one he needed to talk to about everything. And he was saving her for last, because…Well. Because it was the most complicated of them all.

"What if you what?"

"John!" he had momentarily forgotten he was there. "Are you getting Rosie from the sitter?"

"Ah…ya. Why?"

"What month is it?"

"Sorry? What month?"

"Yes," and Sherlock sat at his computer, opening windows and such. "Damn. It's only June."

"Well, yes. It's June. Why?"

"I was hoping it was December."

"December? Sherlock…it's hot as fuck outside…how could you not know…?"

He started to laugh. "Oh John. Surely you've noticed that I've changed…but not so much that I forgot how to have a bit of fun."

John Watson shook his head. "Right. Well…text if something comes up, as long as I don't need to go back to Bart's to talk to Molly," and he started out the door.

Sherlock Holmes sat back in his chair. Molly was the most complicated, which yielded an equally complex solution. He smiled to himself.  
He had changed, yes.

He now had to show her how much.

* * *

It had been a long day…long week, really. Molly rubbed her neck and went to her locker. She opened it and took out her change of clothes…

That was when she noticed something fall to the floor. She stooped and picked up a red envelope.

And she opened it.

It was an invitation…

 _Dear Molly_

 _Please come to 221B Baker Street for a small gathering._

 _Seven PM this evening._

 _Looking forward to seeing you there._

There was no signature, but the address told her who this was from. Why Sherlock was inviting her to a get together was beyond her. Molly rolled her eyes and stuffed the envelope in her bag. She hadn't seen Sherlock since …well. Since before the call. It had been almost a week since John had showed and told her about his sister.

And she wasn't angry. Not really.

Well. Maybe a little.

She took her coat off and changed out of her scrubs and shoes. Was she angry?

Molly sighed and slumped on the bench.  
No…not angry. Not really.

She was just so…

Disappointed. She was disappointed.

But not in Sherlock. In herself.

She rubbed her face and felt her eyes sting a touch. How could she be so stupid? How could she allow herself to be used _again_?

She stood and shoved her dirty things in her duffle and swung it over her shoulder. She'd have a cool shower and a glass of wine. Maybe some telly.

That would set her right.

And so Molly Hooper walked to her flat…a longish walk. She normally caught the train. But she was feeling just so…so…She shoved her hands in her pockets.

She wanted a cigarette. She normally didn't smoke except occasionally with friends, but she was feeling like such shit that she just wanted one.

And that, too, was disappointing.

She stopped at a newsstand and got a pack.

Molly lit it and felt like shit right after taking a drag. She tossed it in the bin and wrapped her arms around herself. It was June, but she felt suddenly cold. She thought that she should absolutely not go to this gathering that Sherlock had invited her to.

She really shouldn't.

But there was a part of her that was irresistibly drawn to it, if only for a little while. She walked down to her flat and opened the door.

She could go, just for a bit. Then she could leave. Tell whoever was there that she needed to be somewhere.

Or something.

She sat on her sofa and considered her options.

Then she got up and went to the shower.

* * *

She was standing in front of 221B, staring at it. It was warm out, and Molly's sandaled feet hurt a bit, both from the sandals, and after the long day at work. She had walked, and it was none too far from her flat.

She sighed. She swallowed. And she closed her eyes.

The knocker was loud to her ears, and she rubbed her palms after she knocked.

The door opened, and Mrs Hudson stood opposite her, a wide smile on her face.

She was clad all in red. "Oh, hello, Molly dear. Won't you come in? Sherlock is expecting you," she moved a bit to allow her passage.

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," and Molly went in.

"How are you?" she had an odd look on her face.

"Fine, thanks," she smiled. "You?"

"Oh, well enough. Molly…" she looked up the staircase covertly. "…Molly…have you spoken with Sherlock at all recently?" her voice had fallen somewhat.

"No. Why?"

Mrs Hudson shook her head. "Well, he doesn't seem…himself. He seems…" she cleared her throat. "Let's go, shall we?" she motioned for Molly to follow her upstairs.

So she did, thinking that this was all very strange.

They walked into the flat, and Molly gasped.

It was decorated for Christmas…and it was June. "What…?"

Sherlock was by the window, playing the violin. "Hello, Molly," he said, not turning.

She swallowed, confused by the display.

And she looked around. John was there holding Rosie, and Greg was sipping wine. She smiled awkwardly.

This…this was…"What's going on?"

Sherlock turned toward her. "Merry Christmas."

"What?"

John cleared his throat as Rosie cooed. "So…Greg. Maybe some drinks?"

"Right," Greg said.

She watched as he poured her some wine. She didn't know what to say to all of this, and she felt her knees grow weak. She was nearly shaking with suppressed rage. What did he think he was _doing_. Molly put the glass down.

She turned and looked at Sherlock, who was a bit closer than he had been…he had taken a few steps toward her. "What's going on?" she asked him.

"It's…" he swallowed. "It's Christmas."

"It's June, Sherlock."

His gaze fell. There was an uncomfortable unease in the air. "I realize that."

"No you didn't. You needed to ask me what month it was," John interjected.

Molly turned to John. "Thank you for that," she said sardonically.

He turned slightly red. "Sorry," he muttered.

She felt her own face flush. "So am I."

There was a silence in the flat. "Shall we have gifts? More wine?" Sherlock left and went to his room.

And Molly downed her drink, wrapped her arms around her and sat in Sherlock's chair, avoiding everyone's gaze.

There was no noise when he returned to the sitting room. And he set some parcels on the kitchen table. "Come now. It's a party," he walked in.

Mrs Hudson stood. "Anyone fancy a…"

"How could you?" her voice was soft, but everyone heard.

"How could I what?" he said.

"This. All of this. You know what you've done. I know what you've done," her voice was now elevated. " _They_ know what you've done."

He stared at her, which enraged her further.

"So…" began Mrs Hudson again. "John, Greg, won't you join me downstairs for some lemonade?"

"Lovely. Rosie?" he stood and took his daughter with him.

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," and Greg left, too.

They were left staring at one another.

"Molly…"

"No."

He cleared his throat. "I …"

"Nope," she stood. "This is just…"

"Christmas," he breathed.

"It's not. You know how much that hurt me. You have got some nerve."

"I'm just…trying to right some wrongs."

"You can't go back in time, Sherlock. This isn't…and you've done…"

He took a few steps toward her. "Please, Molly."

"No," she spat, anger fully filling her face. "This is not ok. It's not. And I can't believe that I've let you… _do_ this to me again."

"Can we talk? Just for a bit. And let me…"

"Let you? _Let you_?" her voice was icy. "You cannot be serious."

He slumped somewhat. He hung his head. "No. Of course not," and any kind of desperation he had felt was gone. His sense of purpose was failing him.

She stared at him. "Why?"

"Why?" he lifted his gaze.

And there were tears welling in her eyes.

"Why what?" he said softly.

She didn't know. Why did she come. Why was he doing this. Why did he make that call. Why was he the way he was. Why did she love him…? "Nothing," she ended up saying.

He swallowed. "I have a gift for you," and he turned, taking a parcel from the table. It was wrapped smartly in red paper.

She shook her head, taking a step back. "No thank you." There was something intensely satisfying in not accepting the gift.

"Molly, please. You had given me a gift a few years back…"

She closed her eyes.

"…allow me to reciprocate at last."

She opened them. Took the package, and left the flat.

* * *

She supposed that that scene was beneath her, but she couldn't help it. She couldn't stand there anymore, listening to his pathetic…whatever. She needed to be done. She felt the hateful tears threaten and wondered what on earth she had been thinking, going there.

She was a glutton for punishment.

Molly reached her flat in record time. She went inside and sat on the sofa, her face in her hands, trying to steady herself.

God, how she hated him.

Except she didn't. Not really.

She opened her eyes and looked at the red gift sitting on the table. She swallowed, thinking she should chuck it in the bin.

But curiosity overwhelmed her.

And she picked it up, unwrapping it.

And there was a box, not terribly large, but not small either. She opened it. Inside, she pulled out:

Two bags of crisps ( _I'm going to get some crisps. Do you want anything?)_

A pound of coffee ( _Black. Two sugars.)_

A gift certificate to Tapas Brindisa ( _Molly…would you like to solve crimes? …have dinner?_

 _Did you get him off of a murder charge?)_

And a hand painted yellow scarf. …her dress at John's wedding swam before her eyes.

It was their relationship. Well, a very small bit. But there it was…

She swallowed, touching the silk scarf. There were tiny flowers painted on. It was lovely.

She picked up the envelope with the gift certificate in it…she opened it. There was a note inside.

 _Merry Christmas Molly. I hope that we might go together, but if not, please enjoy dinner._

She sat back on the sofa, a slight sob escaping her lips.

* * *

It had all been for nothing.

But then, he supposed, he knew it would. Why should she forgive him? Why should she listen? He had never given her any reason to be anything but hostile toward him. And he was getting his just desserts.

He was slumped in his chair, the room was dark.

Molly had left at least three hours ago…

"Sherlock?"

He barely moved. It was his mind hearing her voice because he had been thinking of her.

"Sherlock…"

This time he looked at the door. There was an outline of Molly Hooper there. He sat up.

She was wearing the scarf around her neck. "I was wondering…"

He stood.

"Maybe you'd like to…" she swallowed. "Join me for dinner."

He smiled. He walked to her and took her face in his hands. "I'd love to," and he took her lips in his…"It's Christmas," he whispered into her mouth.

"Merry Christmas Sherlock," she smiled.


End file.
